4 Days. Mutlie vote. Don't vote for your own piece. Don't vote for all five pieces.A curse to which we bare upon our soul,existed once to serve a purpose lost,and though I dare not face it as a whole,we take or leave it though there is a cost.

Till fields still filled with slag and twisted steal,the gentle work of these mechanic times,like storming of the pris'ners to Bastille,unconscious repercussions of their crimes.

And though our minds are now one with machines,identify not what we once had beenour glazing eyes must watch this wretched scene,not following our cultures downward spin,

still striving for what seems to fit us best,just working further toward eternal rest.

The Honey Pot Eludes the Bear

When a bagful of bones shatters and breaksit sounds like a honey pot pawed with intent.She was untouchable, they cried, a fakehope strung out on a tree with branches bent.That great, lumbering bear sat below throughday and through night, with soft, glistening eyes.How he would cry ‘oh, my amore’ with twoclumsy hands stretched out like wings towards the sky.But one day that tortured gaze hardenedand that great, lumbering bear climbed a treetrunk so wide and so tall that they bargained;‘oh, he surely must fall!’. So he drew his knees,clenched his teeth, swung out on that slender limb -oh, and how the cold ground rushed towards him!

Once upon a time there was a FatherWho by seven wives had seven sons.Each one had a wife and seven daughters.All together they weighed several tons…

“Not another piece of propagation!,Said young Billy, sick of n-factorials.Can’t they stick to ice cream combinations?Or at least a husband with some morals?

But alas, I better get to counting.One…Eight… …seven… Wait! Each had a wife?!?…Seventy and one is their amounting.Now I can get on with my own life.”

Tragically, he read not the whole question.He was s’posed to pedigree depression

Procrastination

Sometimes a friend will challenge with a grinaware that I can not resist a dare.I'll rush to say yes, you can count me inand never gave the risk a thought or care.

So when King James invited me to playI took the bait and swallowed with a chomp.I thought that I could surely find a wayto place or even win his little comp.

I did not start until it was too latebecause of this, I realize I'm stuck,a victim of my pride and sealed fate.the words i write aren't worth a flying ****

So writing just to get this sonnet done,I will not have to take a minus one.

Jump

Oh how it would be nice to die in flamesA hero loved and not a lofty slaveThese faces fall and now forgotten namesJust ordinary bones without a faceI'd like to die among the highest planesBe strewn across the sky for all to seeFly far above the basest cars and trainsBe more than ordinary human beingsAnd so I turn my face to ember skiesThe leap from grounded flame changes to flightInstead of slipping falls and halted riseThe long descent, a journey to the lightA simple act, a reach for paradiseThe shouting millions never meet my eyes